AUTHOR'S THIRD NOTE

Some days have passed and now it's finally time to post the second part of this story. Thank you everyone who have chosen to follow, favourite and commenting on the first part! It's the largest response I have ever gotten for any of my stories and I'm completely overwhelmed and so thankful! You are truly the best!

One small side note: I usually incorporate elements or memories of events from the actual episodes and my other stories in the new ones I write, just to create a coherent timeline. Check them out and see if you can find anything in them that I have referenced to here. I also try to sneak in some references to the original Conan Doyle novels and short stories, just like in the series. Have you found any so far?

Now, enjoy the next part and once again, thank you!

PART TWO…
It was only visible to me for about half a second and at first, I was not sure if it was just my imagination. On the other hand, if I had learned anything from Sherlock, it was to never rule anything out, however improbable it might seem. Even if I really had seen what I thought I had seen, the idea of it immediately made me feel sick to my stomach.

I must have lost myself in these thoughts for quite some time because I didn't notice when Sherlock came back from the shower or when he settled by his computer on the desk in the living room. I rose slowly from the sofa that I also had no memory of sitting down on and walked over to him. He had changed into his usual black trousers and an expensive new white shirt, something I had learned over time was a sign of that he was really excited about the new case that was soon coming into his hands. I stood frozen in my place, staring at him as he began to speak but I had no concentration what so ever on his Words.

"So our killer, she's actually fairly creative, killing men off in ways that female characters are killed in the movies of Alfred Hitchcock. Hah, it's quite obvious though that she begins to get too confident now but of course Gregson doesn't get..."

"What are those scars on your back?"

The tone in my voice was deadly serious. Even Sherlock seemed to notice this sudden change from earlier. He stopped in his account even though his eyes never left the computer.

"Hmm, so you noticed." he said indifferently. "I suppose I might have underestimated your skills of observation after all. You should use them more often."

I was used to my friend's nonchalant and sometimes rude answers but this time something snapped within me. I grew very angry very quickly, to the point of pounding my fist loudly into the desk. Sherlock turned to look at me with confused eyes.

"Take off your shirt!" I hissed.

He raised his eyebrows.

"Umm... John, I've read it's common to get cold feet before your wedding day but isn't this to go a bit too far?"

"Take off that bloody shirt!"

Sherlock fell quiet again and looked at me with a sharp, calculating gaze. He must have deduced what he could from my expression and then pondered his options, obviously figuring that it was no point in trying to avoid me. He closed his eyes and sighed deeply before he rose from the chair, unbuttoned his shirt and pulled it slowly from his shoulders. I instantly went behind him to look. The sight that met my eyes was quite as I had expected and absolutely terrifying.

The scars were most prominent on his upper back. To my trained eye every single one of them was as clear as if they were fresh. They were many and in different directions across his skin but all of them in the form of long thin lines. Some looked deeper than others. Deep to the point that the wound they were the result of might have required immediate stitches, stitches that obviously had been made some time later instead.

It took me no time to confirm my suspicions. I had seen those kinds of wounds many times back in Afghanistan on soldiers from all sides in the conflict. Always on men and women that were as much torn apart mentally as they were physically. The words that had been written in my high school dictionary appeared clearly in my head: 'The act of inflicting excruciating pain, as punishment or revenge, as a means of getting a confession or information, or for sheer cruelty'... Torture...

I tried to take a deep breath to calm myself but the following sigh came out just as shaky as I feared it would be. Instead of trying again, I turned hastily away from him and began pacing around the room while clenching my fists harder and harder. Sherlock put on his shirt again in silence but I could feel his gaze being fixed on me. He was studying my reaction.

"Four or five months ago, right?" I finally said in a strained voice.

Sherlock nodded once.

"Four months, right before I returned to London."

I closed my eyes and forced myself to draw another shaky breath.

"Who was it?"

"John, it's not important anym..."

"Who was it?!" I screamed loudly. "I want to know! Who was it?!"

In contrast to my face that must have burned with emotion, Sherlock's expression was completely blank. When he finally answered his voice was also empty of all emotion.

"I had found the last criminal activity with connection to Moriarty's network, a terrorist cell in eastern Serbia. I broke into their main storage building to find out just how much Moriarty had financed them. In the end, I decided to blow the whole storage up but I was exhausted and had been careless in covering my tracks. They discovered me and my attempt to escape was unsuccessful. I was captured, I got out and that's all you need to know."

All I need to know?! I turned away from him with a disgusted look on my face and began pacing again while I pulled my hands manically through my hair. I was so angry and frustrated that I didn't know what to do with myself. The most prominent feeling of all was guilt. It was the same guilty feeling that I had felt on the battlefield every time I couldn't protect or save a fellow comrade. The absolutely horrible feeling of inadequacy, that I could have done so much more.

"You're angry." Sherlock said simply. A loud cynical sounding laugh escaped my lips.

"Hah, yes, amazing deduction! You have once again outdone yourself! Yes, I am very angry."

"I don't understand. Why should you be angry? It wasn't you who got tortured in..."

"Don't!" I interrupted quickly. "Just…."

I didn't want to hear him say it. Couldn't bear to hear him say it.

"I wasn't there!" I said loudly. "That's why! If I had been there, then maybe you... Well, maybe you wouldn't look like that."

I paused and wiped my face with my hands, all while Sherlock's gaze never left me.

"It's just... You."

I stopped and pointed at him.

"You shouldn't have done this alone."

"I wasn't alone." he answered calmly. "Mycroft kept track on my advances during the whole time."

"And what did Mycroft do that time, huh?! Not a single goddamn thing apparently while you ended up getting half ripped apart in bloody Serbia!"

"He did more than you think."

"Not enough!"

During this whole exclamation, Sherlock's face had continued to betray not the slightest emotion. He seemed just completely indifferent to what had happened to him and why I reacted the way I did. When he answered me with another blank look and even more silence, the frustration became way too massive for me. I groaned, rolled my eyes at him and fell down into my armchair. You should have been there. Things could have been different. I should have been there...

It was Sherlock who broke the silence first this time. It was obvious in his tone from the beginning that he was for once trying to choose his words with care.

"John... You have no possible reason to blame yourself for this. It was all beyond your control."

"Then who should I blame if not myself?" I said sighing while I stroke my forehead with the palm of my hand. "Tell me, could I have done anything different?"

Sherlock frowned.

"Different?"

"To make you trust me? What could I have done differently?"

"I've told you before." he answered. "It wasn't a question of trust or not. Only that your reaction needed to look authentic to trick Moriarty's snipers to believe that I was truly dead. It was the only way to..."

"So I was basically just another piece in your bloody game?" I hissed. In a second my feeling of guilt turned into uncontrollable rage and I became so angry that I instead began to laugh.

"Hah, of course! You're Sherlock Holmes and you'll do anything to win the game. Sorry, I should have realised."

"John, I know it was..."

"No, Sherlock, you don't!" I screamed furiously and pointed at him again. "You don't! That's your problem! You are so used to knowing everything, being the one that makes all the plans that you have no idea how it feels for us who don't know a thing!"

"It wasn't easy for me either!" Sherlock suddenly said in a louder voice. Even though this was the result I unconsciously had wanted and had tried to provoke out of him, I was still momentarily stunned by this sudden and large, to him at least, outburst of emotion. Instead of being stunned into silence though, it triggered me even more.

"Really, you think it was difficult for you?! Yeah, it must have been really hard choking up like that! Tell me, was even a thing of how you acted on that roof real or were it all just another play to the gallery? Because you know what? You really nailed it, Sherlock! You should have won an Oscar! Congratulations!"

I expected his answer to follow immediately. Quick and witty comebacks were kind of Sherlock's trademark and he was never late to use them in heated discussions with Scotland Yard. But instead of getting a long monologue about how absurd my argument was, only silence followed. It was uncomfortable from the very instant it appeared. I even had to look around to see if he was still in the room. He was, and still not because the person I saw wasn't Sherlock Holmes. He had the same height, the same clothes and the same hair but his posture seemed to have fallen and his features looked gloomy in a way that I had never seen them before. In his eyes was a look that could only be described as distant and hollow. No piercing gaze, no fire. Just something completely different. It was first then that I realised just how deeply my words actually had hurt him...

AUTHOR'S FOURTH NOTE
So... That was intense. It has truly been an emotional rollercoaster to write this chapter. I have always wondered if John knew about Serbia and how he would have reacted if he got to know and as you can see, this is the result of my speculations.

So what did you think about this chapter? Was John's reaction plausible and what do you think will happen next? Again, let me know in the comments. The next chapter will be up next week. Leave a review if you want to know the exact date. Until then, if you want to, take a look at my other Sherlock stories. The ones that are mostly written in the same style as this one is A Study In Waltz and Engine Error (John's POV) but I do also really recommend The morning the world collapsed. Follow & Favourite!